


Not Guilty

by auberus, Morgyn Leri (morgynleri)



Category: Highlander: The Series, Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Abandoned Work - Unfinished and Discontinued, Alternate Universe, Crossover, Don’t copy to another site, GFY, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-05
Updated: 2019-02-05
Packaged: 2019-10-23 01:32:21
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,388
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17673869
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/auberus/pseuds/auberus, https://archiveofourown.org/users/morgynleri/pseuds/Morgyn%20Leri
Summary: Clint and Methos meet in a small town bar, and Clint finds a new friend while Methos finds a new adventure.





	Not Guilty

**Author's Note:**

> Unbeta'd and unedited.

Clint isn't hiding. That's what he keeps telling himself, even though he knows it isn't entirely true. He's not hiding from SHIELD - they know where he is, even if they haven't put any direct surveillance on him - and he's not hiding from Natasha - she knows he'll want distance, after the mind-fuck they all assume Loki was, and the news that Phil is dead.

Except that he's not convinced Phil is dead, because Fury is a lying bastard who would do anything to achieve his ends, so long as it didn't put the world in immediate danger of being destroyed. And he's not as certain as the rest of them that Loki had fucked with his mind as much as they - and even he, when he'd first woken out of it - think he had.

No, he's not hiding, because he's on enforced down-time with no discernable end in sight, and he's in some little town in the back end of nowhere, in a bar that sells decent beer because he doesn't want to be anywhere near where the others who'd made something of a team against the Chitauri and Loki.

And most of all, he's been working his way through the beers on offer because it's easier to pretend the guilt is over his body-count while under the influence of Loki's staff rather than over his abandoning Loki when everything came down to the end-game. When Loki had been helpless, chained and muzzled, waiting to be taken back to Asgard to face whatever idea of justice they would enforce.

He looks over at the door when it opens, keeping his expression under control when he sees someone tall and lanky, with dark hair and pale skin. It takes a second to see the man has short hair, and his eyes are definitely not the burning blue - or green, his memory refuses to be clear on that - that Loki's are. Just another human, looking for a drink, and probably not looking for company.

The bar is one of Methos's favorites, since they're the only place in a hundred miles that serves decent beer. He's hiding from the Watchers, who have been a little too suspicious lately that little Adam Pierson is more than he claims to be. As a result, when he walks into the bar and feels eyes on him, he almost turns around and walks out. Instead, he decides on the direct approach and walks over to the man, claiming the barstool next to him.

It doesn't make the maybe-Watcher as nervous as it should, if they really have twigged to his being Methos.

"First rule," Methos tells him. "Never look directly at your subject. It's a really good way to attract his attention."

Clint blinks, and lets out a huff of breath before grinning. "Who says I didn't want to attract your attention?" He hadn't exactly intended to attract attention, but he's not trying to avoid it either, unless the man's from SHIELD, and then he probably should find an excuse to leave soon. "Thought approaching your subject would be taboo, too, unless you're trying to be really obvious and amatuer."

Methos lifts an eyebrow, and gives the man the sort of superior smile that irritates MacLeod. "You'd already seen me. What would be the point of hiding?"

Shrugging, Clint downs the rest of his beer, signalling to the bartender for the next one - he's already asked for each of them to be different, until he runs out of beer that isn't cheap piss. "From me, probably not really any point." He glances at the man. "Thought they wouldn't have found anyone willing to get within line-of-sight of me, even if I am technically unarmed at the moment."

"I'm fairly sure we've both mistaken the other for somebody else," Methos says, slightly chagrined. "I thought you were looking for me, not the other way around."

Chuckling, Clint shrugs. "I'm not looking for anyone right now, at least not in my professional capacity." He accepts the new bottle of beer with a nod for the bartender before looking at the man again. The nose isn't really anything like Loki, either, and it helps. He holds out his hand. "Clint."

"Will." Clint has an archer's calluses, which is enough to raise Methos's eyebrows. Archery is mostly a lost art in the modern world, save with a crossbow, and Clint's hands say 'longbow' as clearly as Methos's own say 'sword' to anyone in the know.

"Been practicing with the bow long?" he asks.

That much at least makes the chances that he's from SHIELD practically non-existant. It also makes it clear that he'd managed to avoid being seen on main-stream media coverage of the battle in Manhattan. "Yeah."

He watches Will for a long moment, thinking about the calluses he'd felt. "What kind of sword do you practice with?" Something tells him that whatever it is, it's not simply fencing.

Methos gives him a smile that's as sharp as it is friendly. This one has some brains; the night's conversation should be more interesting than it normally is here.

"I prefer a broadsword," Methos admits. "The weight of it makes for a better workout than does fencing."

Clint nods, taking another sip of his beer. This one isn't one of the better ones, but it's tolerable. "Doing it as a sport, or just on your own?" He knows he's heard of groups that get together to do stuff like that, though he's never really gone looking for them. It's enough for him to practice alone, especially since he makes use of it in his job.

"As a game," Methos says, with an ironic smile, and raises a hand for a beer. "What about you? Do you practice alone, or in a group?" He sits straighter as the bartender slides him his drink. As always, it's good - not the best he's ever had, but then, that monastic order had died out centuries ago.

"Alone." Clint shrugs. "Sometimes with an audience." Phil had watched him practice sometimes, and Natasha. No one else really wanted to, and he's ok with that.

He glances over again. "What sort of game?" It's not exactly the sort of thing that he expects someone to call working with a sword. Unless that someone is Loki or Thor - or one of Thor's friends that had shown up in New Mexico - but they're not really human.

"It's complicated," Methos says, hoping that Clint will lose interest in what was in retrospect, a probably ill-advised private joke. 

"What brought you here?" he asks. "I'm pretty sure I know most of the locals, and you're not one of them."

"Not hiding." Clint curls up one corner of his mouth in a wry smile. "Taking a vacation where my employers aren't really going to bother watching me very closely." Unless someone dies, and then he's not sure what will happen, though he'll probably end up vanishing into some SHIELD facility somewhere until they're sure he's not the reason for the death.

"Where do you work?" Methos asks. There aren't that many employers who keep an eye on their people while said people are on vacation. Most of them are the sort of place that don't allow their employees to admit they work there, government agencies with too much budget and not enough oversight. It will be interesting to hear what lie Clint comes up with.

"Classified." Clint shrugs, taking another long drink of his beer. He knows he's supposed to have a cover story, but right now, he doesn't want to bother with it, not when he's not even certain he'll have a job in the long run. He wouldn't have trusted himself after what had happened with Loki - he's still surprised Rogers had trusted him, though not so much that Natasha had. "Who's looking for you?"

The honesty is startling, and Methos is rarely startled, at least by anything good. He takes a moment or two to figure out how much honesty he can return before betraying himself.

"An old employer," is what he finally settles for.

Clint grimaces in sympathy, understanding what it's like to have former employers - or mentors - come looking for a person. It's never fun, and it's never over until someone's dead, or there's someone more powerful or dangerous between the two. "That sucks."

"Very true," Methos says. "I don't think they've managed to find me here, though I will admit that you gave me a few bad moments at first."

"I don't think a lot of people come looking here for anyone." Clint isn't sorry for the scare, and he's not going to pretend he is, though it isn't something he makes a habit of - scaring others, that is. At least, not when he's off the clock, anyway.

"I assure you that if they were to realize that I'm here, they would absolutely come looking. They're not particularly pleased with me at the moment." Methos shrugs eloquently and takes a long swallow of beer. "And if even the name of your employer is classified, I'd be willing to bet that they would come looking for you if they needed you."

"They'll probably send my partner first." Clint quirks up one corner of his mouth in a half-grin. "She's probably the only one willing to come near me right now." He's not even sure he'd come near himself right now, if he had the option. Although his reluctance has more to do with being not quite sure what he wants than because he thinks he's dangerously crazy. Never mind that if Fury thought that - if Natasha thought that, and she's in the best position to know what that looks like - he wouldn't have been allowed out of their custody, much less their immediate sight.

"I'm willing to come near you," Methos says, with a half-smile. "Of course, I don't know what it is that makes them reluctant to do the same." He takes another long swallow of beer and puts the empty down, signaling to the bartender for a refill.

Clint waits for the refill before he speaks, a twist of his mouth not really resembling a smile, though he tries for something wry as earlier. "I killed a number of agents while under the influence of an alien device. I don't think they trust me not to do that again."

Even as he says it, he wonders that he says it's the fault of the spear, rather than Loki, but at the same time it feels right. Like Loki hadn't really been entirely in control of the situation, no matter how well he manipulated it. Clint knows the other SHIELD agents are probably right not to trust him, if not for the reasons they have.

Methos waits until the bartender has come and gone before speaking.

"It could be worse," he points out. "You could have killed them without being under the influence of anything." Saving the comment about alien devices for later, he adds, "I understand how you feel. Does it help if I promise you it gets easier after a while? You will stop seeing their faces in your sleep, or in the faces of passersby, no matter how hard that is to believe right now."

Letting out a brief bark of laughter, Clint looks over at Will. "I know that. I kill for a living." And while he doesn't usually lose sleep over those he kills, he's rarely forgotten the faces or names. "It's not the killing that bothers me."

"What is it, then?" Methos asks, intrigued. He so rarely finds a mortal who is genuinely unbothered by killing. Even soldiers sometimes end up feeling guilty over the deaths they've caused, but Clint seems genuinely unconcerned by the deaths he's caused.

"Not feeling guilty over working for someone I should have been fighting. I know, influence of outside forces, not my fault that I worked for him." Clint drains the rest of his current beer, waving off another one. He's not ready for another quite yet - he doesn't intend to get drunk, just buzzed enough to have some distance from his own emotions. "Except it felt right. Still does, and I know the influence of the damned spear is broken."

"If it felt right, it probably was right for you at the time," Methos tells him. "Morality is extremely variable. There have been cultures in which it was not only acceptable, but expected, for children to be slain as an offering to the gods. Modern society looks back at that and is appalled, but at the time, it seemed like something that had to be done." He shrugs. "I can give you a thousand other examples, even some from my own life. There's no reason to make yourself feel guilty over something you believed was right when you did it."

Letting out another brief bark of laughter, Clint turns to look at Will, one elbow propped on the bar. "I don't feel guilty. It bothers me, but I don't feel guilty over it, or over not feeling guilty." It's not the right word to put on what he's feeling. Clint's not actually sure what to call what he's feeling, though maybe lonely is part of it. Detached? But it's not right, either, and it's a bit frustrating to not know what to call the ball of emotions he's feeling about the whole incident.

Except that it's not entirely true, because guilt is a part of that ball of emotions, just not over anything he's supposed to feel guilty over. And he doesn't want to talk about that here and now. Not where anyone could overhear him, and one of them could be an agent of some government agency waiting for him to slip up, though it's unlikely any of them are SHIELD.

Methos tilts his head to the side, looking Clint over. After a moment or two he nods.

"Come on, then. Let's get out of here. It'll start the town rumor mill up at full speed, but it won't be the sort of rumor that gets me found. I've got some better beer back at the house, and there's no one there to eavesdrop."

Clint waits a moment, head tilted and considering expression on his face. He really doesn't know Will from Adam, but his instincts are telling him that he can trust Will with this. That the man is dangerous, he doesn't doubt, but at least Clint can trust him with this much. "Sounds like a plan. Gimmie a sec to pay the tab."

He digs cash out of his pocket, dropping enough on the bar to cover the tab and a tip for the bartender, then gestures for Will to lead the way.

After taking care of his own tab and drinking the last few mouthfuls of his beer, Methos pushes himself up off the barstool and slips through the crowd. He lives close enough that he doesn't have to drive, so he almost never does, and hadn't tonight.

"Come on," he tells Clint, leading the way up the mountain behind the bar, along a path that had been there before Methos had bought the house fifteen years before. The climb is steep, but not difficult for someone whose life often depends on whether or not he's physically fit. Clint seems to be having no trouble with it either, which confirms the story he'd told in the bar. 

The house sits on a little plateau about fifty yards above and back from the bar, with the rest of the mountain continuing up behind it. It's an older house, at least by American standards, built before the Second World War; Methos had had to have indoor plumbing installed, as well as electricity. It's one of his favorite refuges, light and airy inside when the sun is up, and cozy when it's not, thanks to the fireplace that heats the living room. He unlocks the door and turns on the light, holding the door open for Clint.

The house itself isn't so much decorated as it is filled with the various things he's collected over the years. There's statuary and artwork that would make a museum director weep with envy, as well as various pieces of furniture that are valuable simply because of their age. It's not cluttered - Methos grew to hate clutter in the Victorian Era, and he keeps the house as roomy as he can, making sure that there is enough space in each room to swing his sword without having to worry that it will get caught up on something.  
He leads the way to the living room, offers Clint a seat, and heads back to the kitchen for the beer.

"Here you go," he says, handing Clint a mug. "Let me know what you think about it." It's self-brewed, with an alcohol content that would be illegal to serve at a bar, and a strong, hoppy flavor that's similar to but better than the stuff they'd been drinking earlier.

Clint takes a sip of the offered beer, grinning at the flavor and the strength. "Nice." He takes another sip before cradling it in his hands, to nurse it over the course of the rest of the evening. He's not intending to get drunk here any more than he'd been willing to do so at the bar. No matter that he'd noted each of the potential exits and weapons when he came in - a habit that's kept him alive in the past, and he sees no reason ever to break.

"Thank you," Methos says, sprawling gratefully into his favorite chair. There's human company at the bar, but barstools are one of the least comfortable pieces of furniture that mankind has ever invented. "I made it myself," he admits, stretching out a hand to pet the cat as she comes out from under the couch. She'd shown up one day not long after he'd moved in, and hasn't vanished yet, though at the moment she's heavily pregnant. Methos gives Clint an assessing look over the rim of his beer. "I don't suppose you'd like a kitten?" he offers.

Chuckling, Clint shakes his head. "Don't think I'd be home enough to keep it alive, and I can't take it with me on assignments." If he ever is allowed to go out in the field again, even with close supervision. The sorts of missions a SHIELD agent is sent on don't usually lend themselves well to close supervision all the time.

Yet, he has a gut feeling that if he were to manage to get back to Loki, and Loki were in a position he could do anything other than be bored and locked in a cell, Loki would trust him on his own. Maybe even without the whole lack of free will thing that came with the spear.

"That's all right," Methos says. "I'm going to put up posters in town once they're born. I don't think it will take long to find homes for them." Lifting the cat into his lap, where she settles down to purr in feline rapture, Methos slides down a little further in his chair.

"Where were we?" he asks rhetorically. "I believe you'd mentioned a lack of guilt. Not that that's necessarily a bad thing." He smiles. "There are all sorts of things in my past about which I ought - by today's standards - to feel guilty and don't."

Clint raises an eyebrow. "By today's standards?" He's curious what standards Will is operating, if he's talking about today as if the morals of the modern western world are new. And, for that matter, how old Will is for that to be the case.

Of course, he could be referring to a different cultural set of standards, but he doubts that. Not here and now, anyway, and not with Clint. "You play by an older set; how old?"

Methos smiles blandly. "I'm a history teacher, Clint. One of the things you learn while studying it is that other cultures have different sets of standards, and that the difference widens the further back into the past you go." 

He doesn't know if Clint will accept that answer; isn't sure whether or not he wants Clint to accept it.

Clint doesn't think Will's telling the entire truth, but it's good enough for now. He can always ask more questions later if something else doesn't add up. He gives Will a brief grin, letting him know he doesn't think that's the entire truth, but doesn't push him.

"I think a number of cultures would probably have a problem with divided loyalties, though." He shrugs, glancing down at the beer, contemplating taking a longer sip of it, but not doing so, not yet. "Especially when divided between enemies when I'd fought for one of them under compulsion."

"Most of the ones with which I am familiar would," Methos admits. "Though if you were under compulsion when you fought for one of them, they'd most likely not suspect that your loyalties were divided. Do you mind if I ask why they are? If someone compelled me to do something, I wouldn't stop until they were killed unpleasantly and then buried so deeply, and under so much concrete, that they'd never be able to dig their way out."

Staring down at his beer, Clint is silent for a long moment, trying to sort out his thoughts. "I don't think he was entirely himself, either, at the time, and I suspect he chose to leave us under compulsion rather than kill us because it suited his plans, rather than whatever he was supposed to be planning. Gave him leverage against whoever was actually in control."

He wonders why Will would assume that someone dead would be able to dig themselves out of their own grave, but leaves that alone for now. It's another thing he can ask about later, and adds to the curiosity about Will. He's not the normal sort of civillian - and Clint is almost willing to bet that he isn't properly a civillian, no matter that he probably isn't employed by any government agency at the moment, or other group that would count among military or para-military outfits.

"You're surprisingly forgiving," Methos's tone is as dry as dust. "Especially if your loyalties are being split between him and your current job." He gives Clint another once-over before asking, "Where would you rather be? At your job, or at his side? Always keeping in mind, of course, that he may decide to strip your willpower away again."

Leaning back in the chair, Clint turns it over in his mind for a long moment. "If he's free of his controller, he's less likely to do that." He doesn't know why he's certain of that, but he is. "And even accepting that risk, he's not a bad employer. He cares what the strengths of those he works with are, and puts them to use in the capacity they're best at."

Of course, SHIELD generally is, as well. But they're unlikely to trust him again, and that makes a difference.

"He trusted me to do what needed to be done, even after the compulsion was gone, I think. Fighting against the army he brought was necessary - he didn't want them to win, since they were important to his controller. I think. I like to think he'll still trust me, now, where my current employers won't - and I don't know if they ever will. My partner, she will, but she's probably the only one."

Another thing that's probably not entirely true, since the others had apparently trusted him to have their back in the fight. They wouldn't have done that if they didn't have some trust in him, even if it was only trusting that he'd want revenge against Loki. Which, he did at the time.

"You work for SHIELD, then?" It's not really a question; Methos can't think of any other governmental agency whose employees would be dealing with alien artifacts and invading armies. 

Putting that aside for the moment, he asks, "Do they not trust you because you were under someone else's control, or because of something else?"

Clint smirks, looking up at Will. "Would you trust an assassin who's been under the absolute control of your enemy, brainwashed in a manner you've never seen before and have no understanding of, so can never be sure is completely gone? Particularly one who has never missed what he aims at?"

Oh, it might have looked like he missed when he'd shot Fury in the chest, and shot at Hill, but Clint is pretty certain now that he hadn't shot to kill at the time. Though he's not about to tell anyone that. Let them think that the brainwashing had effected his aim, let them think that Loki hadn't wanted Fury dead, or Hill dead. Let them think whatever they want, he's fairly certain of the truth.  
"No," Methos admits. "Would it offend you if I offered a piece of advice?" He doesn't give Clint time to answer -- after all, what's the point of being the oldest living thing on the planet if you can't dish out unwanted advice now and then? "Follow your instincts, not what you're telling yourself you should be doing. If that means going rogue, as I'm sure Fury would put it, so be it. Your life is too short to waste it doing something you don't want to do."

Life is too short, period, but Clint still isn't quite sure he's ready to cut himself loose from SHIELD. If only because Phil may still be alive and recovering from whatever wound he took somewhere hidden and classified until Fury is ready to let him out from under wraps. Clint won't believe he's dead until he sees the body.

"How do you know Fury?" he asks, instead of making any sort of comment on what his plans may or may not be. And how Will knows Fury might actually make a difference in how Clint's plans play out - because it might be a chance to find out what's happening with Phil.

Methos waves a dismissive hand. 

"I met him a few years ago. Let's just say we didn't hit it off." Fury had stumbled upon and put an end to a challenge that would have meant final death for an opponent Methos has hated since the 1640s. They'd exchanged words, while the bastard Methos had been trying to kill skulked away. Fury had been on the verge of arresting him until Methos had smacked him in the head with the pommel of a dagger and then done some skulking away on his own while Fury was unconscious.

"Fury at his most charming, then." Clint grins, and takes a sip of his beer. Perhaps not as useful as he might like, for getting the information he wants to make his choice clear. "I don't have enough information to decide what I want to do, and I don't think anyone who'll talk to me at SHIELD has the clearance to find the information, if Fury has even left any sort of trail to be found."

"He was a lot more charming after I knocked him unconscious," Methos says, half to himself. "Just out of curiosity, what sort of information do you need?" He can get into almost every computer out there, protected or not, and if that fails, there's always the Watcher's database. The Watchers make some startling discoveries from time to time, and it's possible, if not likely, for them to have stumbled over whatever Clint needs.

Clint is quiet for a long moment before he speaks. "I need to know if Agent Phil Coulson is alive or dead." He pauses a moment before he adds, "And I'm not going to trust any record of his death unless I see the body myself. I need to know where he is, so I can see."

"I might be able to find that out. No promises, though," Methos warns him. "I'm my own computer expert." He'd learned how out of sheer necessity, when the idea for the Watcher's database had first come to him, and he's done his best to hone his skills ever since. Computers are the way of the future, and not being able to use them would have been a serious handicap for someone who needed to set up a constantly-shifting series of identities. 

"I'm guessing Fury told you he was dead - and that you don't believe him?" Methos lets out a little breath of what might have been amusement, but isn't. "Let me get my laptop, and I'll see what I can do."

"Thanks." Clint settles a little more into the chair, sipping again at the beer. It really was good, better than the stuff at the bar. "You make this?" he asks, raising the cup enough to make it clear what he's talking about. It's a distraction for himself from what Will might find about Phil.

"I do," Methos confirms. "It's an old recipe - it was invented by some Benedictine monks back before Henry VIII decided to split England away from the Catholic Church."

"Huh." Clint takes another sip, then makes himself leave it alone for now. "I like it." He turns his attention to the decorations of the room while he waits for Will to get his laptop, and do whatever it is he can do to get the information Clint wants. Fortunately, patience is something he can claim to have quite a bit of, if only because sniping requires it. Though it only tends to work when he's waiting to be able to do something, rather than being uncertain what happens next.

Methos finishes his beer and goes into the kitchen for another one. Returning to the room, he digs his laptop out from under a stack of papers, and retreats to the couch. Pulling his legs up so as to sit cross-legged, he opens the lid and goes through the usual rigmarole of starting it up. 

"Is that C-o-l-e-s-o-n?" he asks, after a few minutes' frustration.

"C-o-u-l-s-o-n, actually." Clint glances over at Will a moment, letting a brief smile cross his face. "And his first name is Phillip, middle initial J." Clint sometimes forgets those facts when talking about Phil to others, because he's been Phil for a long time, even if he's 'sir' out loud.

Methos nods, takes a sip of his beer, and dives back into the layers of security required to get into the various agencies' networks.

He's not sure how long it takes him - and it takes even longer to find a picture - but when he's finished, his legs are stiff from being in one position too long, and his beer has gone flat.

"I found him," Methos says, turning the laptop so that Clint can see it. "He's alive, but just barely. He's in a coma, and they've got him on life support. Here."

Leaning forward, Clint fixes his eyes on the screen, taking in every detail he can see of the room, of Phil, of the machines they have him hooked onto. Alive, like every instinct he had has been screaming ever since Natasha told him what Fury had told the rest of them. If he didn't know she would come after him if he killed Fury, Clint might even have been tempted to do so.

"Good." His voice is rougher than he intends, but Clint doesn't bother to pretend it isn't. Knowing Phil is alive makes decisions both easier and harder. He can't just walk away from SHIELD, not like he could if Phil were dead. But he still doesn't know that he can stay - and no one really retires from SHIELD.

"Does that help to make your decision any easier?" Methos asks, almost gently. He's probably shown more than he should have to this mortal, though Clint's reluctance to pry has, perhaps, kept him from revealing even more. Clint has been honest with him since the beginning, and Methos believes that honesty should be repaid with the same, wherever practicable.

"I can't walk away, not while Phil's alive. And I can't stay unless he's well enough to argue with Fury." Clint lets out a soft bark of laughter. "It doesn't make it easier, really, it just means I know what I have to do." Waiting is hard, when it's something like this, but he thinks he can manage it. "You think you can keep an eye on that feed without getting caught?"

"Not for long," Methos admits. "I can probably check back on it - but if I even suspect that they're watching me, I'll shut it down and we'll make an abrupt departure. The last thing in the world that I want is to end up in the hands of the government."

Clint nods. "Checking it periodically, if you can, will work. Unless you can give me an idea where he is?" And if the room has a window, so long as they haven't put up heavy curtains or blinds, he should be able to watch Phil himself. Although it's unlikely the room has windows, which will mean infiltrating the place - and that's a job better left to Natasha.

"I don't." Methos retrieves his laptop and shuts it down. "And I can't go digging for it. It was a minor miracle that I could get into the feed in the first place without getting caught." His laptop is set to bounce anyone looking for his IP address from one place to another, but the defenses aren't unbreakable.

Holding back a sigh, Clint leans back in the chair again, and finishes the beer. Checking periodically will have to do, for the moment. He contemplates calling Natasha and letting her know that Phil's alive, and hesitates for a moment before dismissing the thought with a minute shake of his head.

"Damn." Really, he should trust the others with the news, trust them with helping him make sure Phil is fine, and doesn't stay vanished behind whatever Fury put between him and the rest of the world. But he doesn't know any of them by more than reputation and the files SHIELD has compiled on them, save Natasha, and he doesn't trust them to have his back.

Of course, he doesn't know Will even that well, and his instincts are telling him he can trust the man, despite the danger he respresents.

Methos gives him a sympathetic smile. "It could be worse," he points out. "At least you know he's alive. And his brain function looked good enough on the charts I pulled up, so you know he's not a vegetable."

"But it doesn't much matter if Fury never admits he's alive." Clint lets his head drop forward, looking down into his empty mug. "And if he never admits Phil's alive, there's no point to going back."

He hadn't meant to admit it aloud, but he can't take it back now. The fact that it's true makes no difference, only that he had said it to someone who shouldn't really know.

"So get him out of there," Methos says. "You probably won't be able to go back to SHIELD afterwards, but at least you'll be able to have your friend treated in a hospital where the staff wants to cure him, rather than one where they'll do whatever Fury orders them to do." Methos sprawls back into the couch cushions. "I can help, if you want. Phil will need medical treatment between hospitals, and I've been a doctor before." He tips his head back against the cushion so that he's looking straight up at the ceiling. "I can also help you get him out, should we run into armed resistance."

Clint looks up, watching Will steadily for a long moment. "Why are you offering to help?" It's not that he doesn't trust Will, but more than he's curious about his motivations. He's met more people willing to help for the sake of helping than Natasha, but rarely when he's needed them most, other than Phil. It's probably a big part of why he trusts Phil as implicitedly as he does.

"Boredom, mostly," Methos admits. He hasn't done anything like this in quite a while; in fact, the last decade has been the sort of quiet he'd have been glad of before he'd taken his brothers' Quickenings. Now, the peace and quiet just bore him. He grins at Clint. 

"Besides," he says, "you like my beer."

Laughing, Clint grins, and shakes his head. He's not sure why boredom has driven Will to offer to help break probably more than one law, and sneak into a top-secret facility owned and operated by an agency that isn't really controlled by any government, but whatever the reason, he thinks he'll be glad for an extra pair of hands.

And maybe he'll tell Natasha, as well, and maybe, just maybe, Stark. He's probably the only other one Clint thinks might be trusted with this sort of information, and be able to do something about it. If he's not busy with his life, which is very much a possibility.

"That sort of help will be useful, yeah." He pauses. "My partner will want in on this, but other than her, I don't think there'll be any other help."

"Bring her in on it, then." Methos doesn't particularly like the thought of a third person, especially since there are probably going to be times when being Immortal will come in handy. For some odd reason, he feels almost willing to trust Clint with some of his secrets, but he doesn't know Clint's partner, and doubts he'll feel the same way about her.

Clint nods, and stands, handing the mug back to Will. He's not going to make this call from inside Will's house, out of respect for his privacy, and Natasha's. "I'll call her when I get back to my motel room, and we can talk about the rest of it in the morning?" He's not sure he'll actually sleep, and he'll check out in the morning even if it means sleeping outside somewhere until they figure out where they need to go.

Methos almost lets him go, but in the end, the worry about what he might tell his partner in all innocence, and the fallout from that, are enough to decide him.

"I've made some slips while you were here," he says. "Slips I'd really rather you not discuss with your partner."

"I know." Clint quirks one corner of his mouth up in a wry smile. "Just because I'm not bothering with keeping some things to myself that I should right now doesn't mean I can't." And he knows better than to share secrets with third parties. The more who know a secret, the harder it is to keep.

"It'll be easier if you know what you're keeping to yourself," Methos admits grudgingly. "Remember when you asked how old? The answer is somewhere in the neighborhood of five thousand years, maybe longer. After a while, things start to fade."

"Huh." Clint hadn't been expecting that, but after a moment, he nods. It kinda makes sense, and he supposes that, really, Loki and Thor have to be pretty old in terms of Earth-years themselves. There is, after all, a whole body of stories about them here. "Anything else you want me to be extra-careful about?"

"Anything that would make your partner wonder." Methos drains the last of his beer and puts the cup down. "I have an identity that used to be in the military - I'll switch papers before we get going. That will, hopefully, provide the answers to any awkward questions." He hesitates, then adds, "And if a stranger ever comes up to me, you'll have to let me go off with him." Methos's smile has more bitterness than humor in it. "That's the downside to living for as long as I have - opponents who want to cut your head off."

"That sucks." Clint grimaces, and nods, making a note to himself to mention as little about Will as Natasha will let him get away with. Most of the time, it's enough that she knows he trusts a person to at least give them a little slack. Enough slack to hang themselves with, though he's yet to have that happen in a professional capacity, at least. "I'll keep that in mind, though."

"I appreciate it. The people I'm hiding from tend to turn up in the most unlikely places." Methos manages to detach himself from the couch and stand up. "I'll see you tomorrow," he says. "Just come up here whenever you're ready. If I don't answer right away, keep knocking. I'm not really a morning person."

* * *

Natasha had promised to be there as soon as she could - and Clint isn't counting on that being more than a day. Which means he has enough time to start working out a plan with Will, and be ready to start looking for where Phil is. If, of course, Natasha doesn't do some digging of her own before she leaves SHIELD headquarters and joins them in the middle of nowhere.

Which is why he's standing outside the door of a man he really doesn't know much about yet, with a duffle on his shoulder, and a new burn phone tucked in his pocket because he wasn't about to have something tracable on him.

Clint waits a heartbeat before knocking on the door. Politely at first, then slowly escalating until he gets a response.

A loud banging pulls Methos from sleep. He hates being woken up this early; it always takes him a little bit to wake up, to let his brain come on line. His instincts, however, start working even before he opens his eyes.

Grabbing the Ivanhoe from under his bed, he starts towards the door. He can't feel any hint of another Immortal, but that doesn't mean they're not using a mortal dupe. He jerks the door open, and only when he sees Clint's face does he remember why he's getting up so early.

"Sorry," he says, lowering the sword. "I did tell you that I don't like mornings. Come in, make yourself comfortable while I go and put some more clothing on."

Clint grins at the sight of a broadsword, though there's a hint of instinctual terror there, as well. He's been away from the whole reason for his terror long enough to push it away pretty quickly, though. "Nice view," he says, his grin widening as he steps inside, and sets his bag where he'll have the easiest time scooping it up as he heads out. His bow is inside, and a quiver full of arrows, and while he feels almost naked without them, at least they're here, and not still in Manhattan.

"My partner should be in town by tomorrow morning. She's supposed to meet me at the bar, but I can't promise she won't figure out where your house is and come up here instead." It's the sort of thing that Natasha is good at.

"Hopefully, I'll be dressed by the time she arrives," Methos says wryly. He heads back to the bedroom, unsure as to whether Clint's first comment had been genuine or sarcastic. Methos doesn't like being uncertain; it makes him even more irritable than he already is.

He pulls on a plain white t-shirt that the drier had made a little tighter than his generally are, and forgoes the usual sweater. If Clint was being serious, let him look. If he's not, he probably won't even notice.

He re-emerges from the bedroom once he's finished his ablutions and, snagging a beer out of the refrigerator, heads for the living room.

"Would you like one?" he asks.

"Yes, please." Clint gives Will a quick once-over, an appreciative smile flickering across his face a moment. He's not going to be too obvious, but he's not going to avoid looking when he thinks someone is nice to look at. Anything else, he'll worry about later, after they've gotten Phil out of wherever Fury has stashed him, and gotten him into the hands of a doctor whose concerns will be the patient and being paid, not the whims of Nick Fury.

The once-over and the smile are answer enough for Methos. He returns the favor, just blatantly enough for Clint to know that his attraction is reciprocated before going back into the kitchen. Methos has tried to stay away from men since the constant drama and ultimate crisis that had been his relationship with MacLeod, but Clint is nothing like the Highlander in either looks or temperament. 

"I didn't make this one," he says, offering the bottle to Clint, "but it's not bad." By way of demonstration, he takes a sip from his own bottle before settling into his favorite chair, sliding down in it until he's comfortable.

"What time tomorrow morning?" Methos asks.

Clint flops down in the chair he'd occupied the night before, taking a sip of the offered beer. Will is right, that it isn't bad. "She didn't say when she would get here, just that I'd better be waiting for her in the morning at the bar, or she's going to come find me." Which probably means he should get there fairly early, to keep Natasha from getting any more unhappy than she currently is.

"Fantastic." Methos makes a face. "I'll give you my phone number. That way you can warn me, and I won't greet you in boxers and broadsword again."

While Clint wouldn't mind seeing that again, it could pose some awkward questions if Natasha saw, so he nods amiably. "Sounds like a plan." He takes another sip of his beer. "You had any thoughts on how to find where Phil is?"

"A few," Methos says, sprawling a little further down in the chair. "I tried tracking them down by IP address, as they would me should they notice I've gotten into their system, but they're bouncing it off of a hundred different places. They seem to be using big cities, so there's a chance I can track him by finding the address that isn't in a big city - but that only works if he isn't in a big city." Taking a sip of beer, he continues, "The other way I've thought of would be to track him by his chart. If I can get the name of the hospital, we can start checking all of the hospitals with that name. I haven't looked yet, but there's a chance they were careless and forgot to encrypt it. Otherwise, I'll have to force it myself - using someone else's laptop. I don't particularly fancy being strapped to a lab table while scientists cut me open to figure out the secrets of Immortality."

Clint winces. "Yeah, that wouldn't be a whole lot of fun." He doesn't like Medical on principle, and he's not got a whole lot of secrets that SHIELD - or at least, Phil - hasn't figured out. "How long do you think it'll take to break the encryption, once you start?" Acquiring a laptop to be used shouldn't be too difficult, and Clint is almost certain Natasha will think about that, and might well bring a laptop that would be useful.

"Not long." Methos says. ""If it were done when 'tis done, then 'twere well  
It were done quickly.'" He reaches for his beer and takes a sip before continuing. "Shakespeare aside, if I can get in, it will have to be a surgical strike; I'll need to be in and back out inside of five minutes." He doesn't add that he'd been practicing most of night on systems that won't lead to the FBI on his doorstep. They were easier to crack, but one can't have everything.

"And we'll have to be ready to move quickly once we know where Phil is." Clint has no illusions that as soon as Fury is aware someone's looking for Phil, he'll have him moved to a new location. "I don't trust Fury not to move him when he knows someone's hacked the system."

"I don't trust him not to move Phil on a regular basis, just in case. He's one of the most paranoid bastards I've ever met - but he's not as paranoid as I am." Methos grins. "With any luck, I'll be a step ahead of him all the way." He doubts that Fury will actually move Phil, but not because Phil might die because of it. He thinks Fury has secured Phil in some place that feels safe to him.

"Does Fury go anywhere in particular after he's been upset? Some kind of safe place, where he can think?"

Clint makes a face. "I'm not the one to ask about that - Phil would know, and Hill would know, but all I'm sure of is he has vanished from time to time. He likes to keep a personal eye on a number of projects, too." That much he's sure of, though he doesn't know all of the projects Fury tends to keep an eye on. "I doubt he'd have Phil out of the country, though. Never have heard of him out of the country except on the Helicarrier."

Methos nods. "That might help. If he likes to keep a personal eye on things, Phil won't be too far from SHIELD headquarters."

Which would put Phil in Manhattan, or in the New York City area, and it would make more sense for Clint and Will to go to Natasha, rather than have her come here. Clint hesitates a moment before he voices that bit of information, since that begins to approach treason closer than he wants to think about. "It might be easier to tell my partner we'll meet her there, instead of having her come all the way out here, only to go back."

"That's fine with me." Methos gets up from his chair in one smooth movement, and starts towards the bedroom. "I'll just pack, if you don't mind. We'll have to go by car, though. I don't have time to get official permission to take my sword on the plane."

Clint nods. "I'll call my partner, and let her know the change in plans." He's trying to figure out how he could have missed that bit of information, though he knows it's easily because he's too close to things. He pushes himself out of the chair, and moves toward the door so he can call Natasha.

Methos packs light, thinking as he does about all of the other times he'd packed like this and left somewhere one step ahead of the Watchers, or another Immortal, or even a mortal. This time is different. He's not fleeing - in fact he plans on returning here after this is all over, and knowing that makes packing less of a chore. He'll never like it, but today he can tolerate it.

He puts his sword in its case, then grabs both that case and his suitcase and takes them out into the living room.

"... you there. Yeah, I'm sure about this, Nat." Clint runs a hand through his hair, grimacing at the sharp tone as Natasha scolds him over the phone. That she's letting even him see this much emotion means she's particularly upset, and he's not exactly looking forward to getting back where she can insist he spar with her. "We'll be there in a couple days." He pauses, grimacing again. "You can look, but just don't tell anyone else yet, Nat. Not until we have Phil home."

He looks up when Will comes back into the room, holding up a finger to ask him to wait a moment, so Clint can finish talking to Natasha.

Methos nods, putting down the suitcase and settling himself into his favorite chair, the sword-case across his lap while he waits for Clint's conversation to finish. 

Clint nods as Natasha tells him to meet her at the apartment in Queens. "Yeah. We'll see you in two days." He turns off the phone after he hangs up, and drops it into his duffle. "There's an apartment in Queens, rent paid in cash, that we can use to start from."

"Good. And if we get traced back to that one, I have two other places inside the city that will provide a safe haven." Methos lifts a questioning eyebrow.

"What is your partner going to be looking for? If it's Phil, and she's seen, they probably will move him, despite the probable risk to his health."

Shaking his head, Clint slings his duffel over his shoulder. "Just finding out where Fury is, and his itinerary for the next several days. She's good at infiltration, when we get to that point." Clint tends more toward breaking in than infiltration, when he isn't doing his job at a distance. "And interrogation, if she thinks it's needed."

"In that case, I think we're ready to go," Methos says. "We'll stop by the pub to get your things, then get a rental car that can't be traced back to any of us. I've got a throwaway identity I can use for that."

Clint holds up the duffle he'd brought with him. "Everything I had with me is in here, and I already checked out of the motel." It makes it easy to just go when he can pick up his life in one hand, and leave. "Once we have the car, we're good to go."

It doesn't take long to rent the car. Fortunately, the man behind the counter doesn't know Methos - which is a piece of luck in such a small town - so there are no questions about his identification.

The car has a full tank of gas, so there's no need for another stop before they get on the interstate, heading north.

There's only person Clint has been able to relax in a car with, when he's not driving, and since Phil is the one he's going to go find, it means he's not likely to sleep unless they stop for the night. He settles back in the seat, though, and at least attempts to appear to relax.

They ride in silence until Methos finds the radio and turns it on, smiling to himself when he finds a Who song on his first try. After he's settled on a radio station, the only noise is the music that spills from the speakers. They ride that way for the first three hundred miles or so, the silence between them comfortable rather than awkward. Methos finds a rest stop and pulls over, wanting to stretch his legs and maybe get a soda, vile as he thinks them to be.

Clint heads over to the vending machines, getting himself a couple of sodas, wanting the caffine as much as the sugar for the moment. He leans against the car, drinking the one as he waits for Will to come back. "You want me to take over driving for a bit?"

"If you want to." Methos takes a sip of his soda and scowls at the can. It's the one thing he's never been able to like, even though disliking it makes it harder for him to blend in with the crowd. "I might be able to get some sleep to make up for my early morning." Tossing Clint the keys, he climbs into the passenger's side of the car.

Grinning, Clint slides into the driver's seat, and makes sure he's buckled in before he starts the car. Once they're out on the highway again, he pushes the acceleration, easily passing the trucks in the right lane as he hits ninety miles an hour. It's one of his passions, and he reaches for the radio, changing the station until he finds a station playing country music, and keeps heading east. They'll have to stop for gas in the next hundred miles or so, but that shouldn't take too long, and he's more than willing to keep going after that, until he's too tired to keep driving. And then, maybe, he'll be able to get some sleep while Will drives later.

"You drive too fast," Methos points out, settling back into the passenger's seat as if it were his favorite chair at home. He doesn't bother with his seatbelt - being thrown free of the car should they get into an accident is the best option. Putting his feet on the dashboard and lowering the seat back, he closes his eyes. He's usually a light sleeper; today he's dozing, drifting in and out, while at the same time aware of everything that's going on around him.

"I like fast." Clint grins, though he doesn't try to push the car any faster as they continue down the highway. It's an uneventful fourty-five minutes before he pulls off the highway, and into a gas station.

"Hey. You want another soda while we're here?" Clint has to go inside to pay cash for the gas anyway, and he intends to get himself a couple more sodas. "I'll pump the gas, and drive a while after, unless you really want to drive instead."

"I'll come in with you," Methos says, getting out of the car and stretching again. "Hopefully I'll end up with horrible gas station coffee instead of a soda." He makes a face. "I really can't stand the stuff."

"As far as driving goes," he continues, "if you're up for it, go ahead. Just do me a favor and don't run off the road and kill us both. I don't fancy sneaking out of the morgue."

"I haven't crashed anything I've driven or flown." Clint doesn't really count anything where he's been under fire, though he's been pretty good about not crashing even then. Or, when he did, it was a fairly controlled crash. He shrugs, heading inside to pay for gas and soda for himself, letting Will pay for his own coffee.

The coffee is actually not that bad, Methos discovers, especially if one puts enough cream and sugar on it. He pays for it and heads towards the car, sliding into the passenger's seat while Clint is pushing buttons on the gas pump. Stretching back out again, he closes his eyes and lets himself fall back into a light doze.

After the gas is pumped, Clint gets them back on the road, settling at his earlier speed, sodas to hand to keep him alert, and country music blaring from the speakers.

* * *

Natasha is waiting in the apartment when she hears a key in the lock, and she shifts, gun in hand just in case, and moves so she has a clear line of sight to the door while still being mostly hidden herself. She doesn't actually relax once she sees Clint, but waits for his companion to come in behind him, studying him closely while she keeps her gun aimed at the floor.

"Nat." Clint has moved so he can see her clearly, and is watching her with a steady gaze. He looks better than when he left, but there's still something lurking in his gaze she can't read, and that bothers her. "This is Will." He looks over at the man, and tilts his head toward her. "Will, Natasha."

"It's a pleasure," Methos says, switching to Russian to do so. Looking between her and Clint, he's reminded of Kipling - that 'the female of the species is more deadly than the male'. In this case, the poet had probably been right.

Natasha waits a heartbeat to put her gun back in its holster, raising a mental eyebrow at the greeting. It's not many who would recognize her as Russian, especially without her speaking, and she doesn't think Clint mentioned that. "Thank you, I think." She looks between them a moment. "You have proof Agent Coulson is alive?"

"Yes," Methos answers. "If you need to see that proof, I can show you, he continues, hefting the laptop slightly, "but it will be safer if I don't. The less I have to get into and out of their system, the less chance there is of getting caught doing so."

"I'll see the proof when we have a location." Natasha is willing to accept - if only because Clint had been the one to tell her, and with a certainty in his voice she's trusted almost since he brought her into SHIELD - that there is proof Phil is alive without actually seeing it. She's not willing to let herself hope it's real until she sees him with her own eyes.

"Did you bring a laptop we can use to hack the systems?" Clint has dropped his duffel next to the breakfast bar between the kitchen and the main room, and is unzipping it to get at his bow and quiver.

"In the second bedroom. I also brought a second quiver, just in case you need it." Natasha moves to sit on top of the bar, watching Will carefully.

Methos smiles at her, mostly because he knows she won't trust it.

"I'll go get the other laptop," he says, putting his own laptop on the breakfast bar and his bag on the floor. "There are some things I need to try before we go looking for the location the hard way."

Clint nods, checking over his bow to make sure it had come through the trip ok before he strings it. He'll fetch the other quiver later, when they have a location - or at least, an area to search.

"You trust him?" Natasha asks once Will's gone into the other bedroom, her voice just barely audible. She doesn't think anything has been done to Clint while he's been gone to effect his judgement, but she's also not certain his judgement isn't still skewed by the events with Loki.

"With this, yes." Clint looks over at her with a brief smile that doesn't do anything to reassure her of his current ability to judge people's character. "He listened, Nat, and he had the resources to go looking for Phil."

"You could have told me what you suspected." Natasha gives him a long look, and Clint shrugs. "Stark has broken into SHIELD files before."

"And I don't know Stark enough to trust him with this." Clint slips his bow across his back before crossing his arms over his chest. "He's good in battle, but that's not enough for me to trust him with Phil."

**Author's Note:**

> Written in 2013.


End file.
